The Great Hogwarts Portrait Rebellion
by Shiv5468
Summary: Ten years after the fall of Voldemort the Minister decides to commission a portrait of the Order of the Phoenix. It isn't the best idea he's ever had.
1. Chapter 1

The Prologue

Avalanches can begin with a pebble, and revolutions aren't always started by people with noble intentions.

Take Percy Weasley, for instance. He's a selfish, power-crazed twerp with the warmth and humanity of a snake. However, it was his decision to run for office as the Minister for Magic that led to the Great Portrait Rebellion of Hogwarts, Phineas Nigellus finding true love so many years after his death, and the marriage of two former members of the Order of the Phoenix.

I'm fairly certain he never intended any of that to happen.

You see, Percy decided that his chances of becoming Minister would be improved if he could find some subtle and tasteful way of pointing out that most of his family had been involved in the fight against Voldemort, allowing him to emphasise his membership of a Family of Heroes whilst handily glossing over the inconvenient fact that he had done nothing more dangerous during the War than quarrel with his mother. So he announced that he was commissioning a Wizarding Portrait of the Order at War.

He carefully explained to the Daily Prophet how the commission had nothing to do with his running for Minister, and everything to do with recognising the sacrifices that others had made for the cause of freedom. This sacrifice was, according to the editorial (with a very tasteful black border) currently being frittered away by the present incumbent of the Ministry and wasn't it time for a change?

Only his mother believed the article.

He got in, in case anyone is interested, but that's not the point.

The point is that dear old Percy was lumbered with actually going ahead with the commission, and having to find the money to pay for it. He'd fondly imagined that he'd be able to use Ministry funds, but a couple of the brighter Muggleborns had introduced something called Financial Controls which meant that the Minister could no longer use Ministry funds as their own private purse.

It was a bitter blow to find that a centuries-old tradition of graft and corruption had been overturned by the simple requirement that all requisitions should be counter-signed by the Head of the Financial Department.

That would be me, you see, Hermione Granger, and I'm sea-green incorruptible. Not to mention, bloody pissed-off to find that little wanker using my reputation to build his political career.

Unkind Persons, peering over my shoulder whilst I write this, suggest that this has more than a little to do with the fact that I hadn't thought of using it myself in a bid for power but that's rubbish. The Minister thinks he's got the power, but it's the one that wields the cheque book that really runs the Wizarding World, and without having to be nice to voters either.

I'm not a people-pleaser, you see. I can't be doing with all that chit-chat about their spouses, and their families, and what they did at the weekend. If I wanted to know about children, I'd have some of my own, and who wants to talk about the weather anyway? You look out of the window; you can tell it's raining, so you take an umbrella. Occasionally, the sun is shining, but you take a brolly anyway, because we all know what the weather's like here. It's not rocket science. It doesn't need a ten-minute conversation.

(Unkind Persons and I agree on the bit about the weather, though I'm sure he blenched at the thought of having children.)

So, no, I didn't want to be Minister for Magic. I'm quite happy being the Power behind the Throne, because if I don't want some Ministerial project to happen, it doesn't. 'I'm sorry Minister, but the Budget won't stretch that far this year. Not unless you cut down on your own personal expenses," is usually sufficient to put a stop to most things. Then you give them assurances that you'll try and find the money next year, which makes them feel like they've achieved something, and by the time the next Budget cycle comes round they'll have a new bee in their bonnet.

If you ask me you can learn all you need to know about handling politicians by reading books on how to deal with fractious toddlers.

Percy invited me to his office, on his first day on the job. He wanted me to call him Percy, as if we were friends. It was all part of his new inclusive governmental style, which pretty much looked to me like someone who was going to get others to do his thinking for him and him taking the credit. Not that that was any different from preceding Ministers, but at least I didn't have to pretend to like them.

Needless to say, I called him Minister throughout our Little Chat.

"Just a few things I need to get sorted out," he said, and then attempted to slip the costs of the Portrait through as a late addition to the Agenda: Item 43 (Miscellaneous): Ancillary expenses.

He'd made two elementary mistakes there. Firstly, it was a nice round sum, which was odd in itself: miscellaneous expenses rarely add up to whole galleons, and when they do, it's a sign someone's been fiddling the figures. And if you're trying to slip something past me, never put it on the end of the list. Slip it into the middle, preferably after a small but disallowable expense, which I would deduct after much argument, and hope I'm sufficiently distracted not to notice the next item.

Not that that would work either, but at least you're making an effort.

"Minister," I said. "The last item on the Agenda. I'm sure you're aware the Ministry can't pay your personal expenses."

"Oh, they're not personal expenses," he said, thinking on his feet. "They're Ministry expenses."

As if I was going to take his word for that. "In relation to what, Minister?"

Percy thought long and hard before replying, assessing which answer was likely to get him what he wanted. In the end, he decided on the truth. "The portrait of the Order of the Phoenix."

"I understood you were paying for that personally. As a mark of respect. I'm sure that's what you said in your interview."

"You know how unreliable those reporters can be," he said confidingly. "It was a misunderstanding. I was misquoted. What I said was taken out of context." Percy's brow was unruffled by any sense of wrongdoing.

"And where do you intend to hang the Portrait, Minister. If it were to hang on the wall of your office, for instance, I can see that there's an argument that it should come out of Ministry funds, but if it's for your own personal enjoyment, well, that's another matter."

There was no way it was going on the wall of his office; Percy wouldn't fancy being harangued by the Members of the Order on a daily basis. You didn't have to be a genius to realise that none of his brothers would treat him with the respect that he thought he deserved, and it would be tricky to conduct any business with Fred or George blowing raspberries at him. And that's assuming that would be the worst that they would do.

Percy had rather over-estimated my vanity. He thought I'd be so pleased at the thought of being immortalised for posterity that I'd turn a blind eye to the misappropriation.

He was wrong.

It's not as if people need reminding about what I did. I can guarantee that anyone I meet for the first time will ask one of three questions. What is Harry Potter like? Was Voldemort really as frightening as people say? Did you and Ron ever snog?

I used to tell them the truth: that Harry was normal really, if a bit impulsive, that Voldemort was every bit as frightening and more, and no, never, not ever, ever. But they didn't want to hear that; it wasn't juicy enough. So it was either tell them lurid tales, or just look serious and say it's too painful to talk about.

Of course, now they've abandoned the Snogging Ron question in favour of asking about Unkind Persons and either sighing about how romantic it all is, or enquiring just how good he is in bed, according to taste. As if I'm going to answer!

(Bloody good.)

So, there was Percy, temporarily worsted, and faced with an enormous bill for a Portrait he didn't want, couldn't afford, and didn't even have room to hang. You have to give him credit though; he managed to extricate himself from his difficulties with great skill. More slippery than a greased pig, that one.

The Portrait was to be paid for by way of public subscription, so that the whole Wizarding World could feel that they'd participated in an act of commemoration, and the picture was to be hung at Hogwarts to inspire future generations.

And by way of petty revenge, he left all the arrangements to me. It was a relief in many ways: at least we'd get something tasteful.

Of course, it was never going to be easy, not when you consider several of the members were dead, Harry hated having his picture taken, and then there was the Headmaster to consider.

It wasn't going to be easy, but I was sure I'd be able to sort it out. After all, I'd got Ron through his Newts, how hard could it be to persuade people who hated each other to sit for a portrait?

There was only one possible choice to paint the picture: Rylestone. He, as he was quick to point out to everyone, was a genius and the greatest living Wizarding Portraitist. It wasn't much of a claim, as he was practically the only living Wizarding Portraitist, and certainly the only professional.

Rumour had it that he'd begun his own self-portrait several years ago, so that his genius would not be lost to the world, but he hadn't cast the final spells to 'wake' the painting: the world was only big enough for one Rylestone.

He may be a genius, but no one was buying his pictures. Times had changed, and fashions with them, and few Pureblood families wanted (or could afford) a full-length Wizarding portrait these days. The problem was convincing people to pay top galleon for a portrait, when a photograph would do as well. Who cared that a Portrait had a mind and personality of its own, or that it almost had a life independent of the Subject, when it cost twenty times as much as a photo?

And photos don't shout abuse at you; they just wave and smile. If you ask me it's not just the price that's the problem. The truth is no one wants their mementoes to argue with them. Grandma is a lot easier to like with her mouth shut, and not criticising the standard of your house keeping spells.

Rylestone existed on a thin diet of Ministry commissions, miniatures, and the occasional family group from one of the older families that somehow managed to salvage their wealth from the confiscations that followed the fall of Voldemort.

I knew his assistant, Sarah Shackleton, from Hogwarts. She'd been a couple of years ahead of me, and had been Head Girl in her time. No one could understand why she'd decided to throw away a glittering Ministry career to become an Artist's apprentice, but she seemed happy enough. She'd succeeded in getting him organised, which was no small feat, and even managed to turn a small profit.

She said Rylsetone hated Ministry commissions: grey men, in grey robes, with grey personalities, is what he called them. Painting a Ministry portrait was so depressing, that he would spend several days afterwards lying on his sofa, sipping weak tea, and nibbling at dry biscuits, until his spirits lifted enough to be able to face another commission. Sarah said he'd tried shoving interesting props into the paintings, but all that did was emphasise the greyness. Lately, he'd taken to allowing her to do the figures, before he finished off the faces, but it only slightly diminished the tedium. As far as he was concerned, painting robes could be technically demanding with all the interest of the play of light across the folds, but the faces of Ministry officials had no personality and no style.

Rylestone would often complain that the modern Wizarding World was almost entirely devoid of characters, and wonder how he was ever to match the great Masters, if he had to work with dross. So he greeted the news of the commission with tears in his eyes. No one could accuse any of us of being dull and grey.

Of course it wouldn't be the first time that he ended up with tears in his eyes.

No one wanted to have their portrait painted, and certainly not as a group.

Time had done nothing to dull Harry's hatred of Snape, and no amount of persuasion would convince him that he had been involved in a cunning plot with Dumbledore that had meant he was forced to kill him, but had remained loyal to the Order throughout the last years of the War. Despite being instrumental in the downfall of Voldemort, Snape was still regarded with deep suspicion and hostility by some elements of the Wizarding World – which he said only made it easier for him to maintain discipline at Hogwarts - and only owed his position as Headmaster to the fact that the previous Minister for Magic would hire Voldemort himself if it meant annoying Harry.

Percy wouldn't have minded removing him from his job, but was too sensible – and too scared – to do so in his first term.

So, Harry didn't want to be in the picture with Snape, and Snape didn't want to be in a picture with Potter or Sirius. Sirius was dead and so couldn't be consulted, but would no doubt start complaining about the company he was keeping from the very first moment he was brought to life. Only Minerva and Albus didn't raise any objections to the idea, and that was because they were dead.

Things were not looking good when I got involved. It was a bit like jackstraws: you had to know what order to pull the sticks out.

Harry and Remus agreed to do it, because they wanted to talk to Sirius again, even if that did mean hanging round with the Traitor. The Twins, Ron and Arthur agreed to do it, because Molly wanted it.

Which just left Snape. Who said, and I quote, "I'd rather poke my eyes out with the blunt end of a wand, than subject my Portrait Self to a second in the same frame with Black."

So Sarah shrugged, as I told her to, and pointed out that if he was happy to be omitted from the portrait, one to be hung in his own school, that that was his business. He got the point almost immediately. He may have hated Sirius Black, but he would put up with him rather than be left out of the limelight. He did insist on having the full width of the canvas between them though, which seemed like a perfectly sensible suggestion.

In the end Rylestone settled for a domestic scene round the kitchen table, with Molly pouring tea for us all. Sirius was slouched in his seat to the extreme left, with Harry, Ron and Remus grouped round him, then me, then Arthur and the boys, and at the other end of the table another group of Molly, Minerva, Albus and Snape all looking serious as they sipped at their tea.

Percy hadn't been happy with the idea at first, and it had taken some time to persuade him that this cosy scene brought out the humanity of the participants more than some grandiloquent scene on the battlefield, and emphasised the bravery of the Weasley family in particular.

So, with the Minister happy, and the painting completed, the stage was set for the Unveiling of the Portrait at Hogwarts.

That was when the trouble really started.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter One

Phineas Nigellus was taking advantage of the Headmaster's absence to get a couple of hours snoozing. When he'd been alive, he'd always settled down for a post-prandial nap with a hanky over his head to settle his meal, and prepare him for the rigours of the afternoon, so he saw no reason to change the practice now. .

Just because you were dead, didn't mean you had to change the habits of a lifetime.

Being a portrait was odd; there was no other way to put it. Some portraits got philosophical and contemplative and pondered on the meaning of life, and what It Was All About, and spent their time disputing with other portraits. Phineas had never really cared about that sort of thing, and was bloody grateful about that. It certainly made already dull portraits even more tedious.

Fortunately, he'd spent most of his life mired in intrigue and plotting, and had been happy to find that this hobby would see him through his Portrait years. Not only could he, and did he, take an interest in the affairs of the still-warm, but there was a new hierarchy and power system to get used to.

As far as he could see, there were enough opportunities there to keep the average Slytherin happy for a very long time, and he was by no means average.

The posthumous portraits were often the ones that had the most difficulty adjusting. One minute you were dead, and the next minute you woke up in a frame feeling a bit bewildered. At first it was great, you had another chance at life, and you could run around doing all the things you'd never had a chance to, such as telling your boss what you'd always thought of him, or going to a picture of Egypt and exploring, or…, or….

And that was the problem – eventually you ran out of things to do.

If you weren't very, very careful, and didn't make a determined effort to keep yourself busy and not think about the fact that you were going to live forever, then you could end up going doolally. Because once you started on the line of thought that began with 'if you can call this living' it was the slippery slope to trying to pick the paint flakes off the canvas and hasten your demise.

It was rumoured that there were portraits hidden away in the bowels of the castle that had 'gone funny' and were sequestered for their own (and others) protection. Phineas couldn't think of anything much worse than being trapped in a room with potty portraits, though, come to think of it, that wasn't very different from his own position on the wall of the Headmaster's office.

If you asked him, some of the previous Headmasters hadn't been quite the full knut; or rather, they had been. Phineas had been surprised that Albus Dumbledore no longer adorned the walls, but after the war was over they'd been too busy rebuilding to try and find where the portrait had gone. It was presumably trapped somewhere when the portrait network had been closed down during the war, but no one had any news of him. And somehow it was never the right moment to look for him. Phineas had never been too sure that the new Headmaster had actually liked Albus all that much and it would certainly be embarrassing to have the face of the man you had killed peering down at you, no matter how much he had asked you to do it.

When you were just finding your feet in the job, Albus Dumbledore looking over your shoulder was the last thing that you needed. Snape had always been keen on making his own mistakes – and what mistakes they'd been. Still, he'd come good in the end, no one could deny that: an ornament to his house.

And one who was receptive to advice offered by a well-respected Portrait of worldly experience, who was well-versed in the machinations of others, especially if the Portrait in question wasn't above sneaking around to get information.

The ornament in question, slammed open the door to his office with an almighty crash, rudely jerking Phineas awake. "What? What? What?" he burbled trying simultaneously to reach for his wand, slip the hanky away, and work out what on earth was going on.

The Headmaster was upset, and when the Headmaster was upset, he made it his business to share that information with as many people as possible, whether they were interested or not.

The portraits had initially been disappointed when Dumbledore had passed on. He had an eccentric of the highest quality, and could always be relied upon to be entertaining, but as a portrait he seemed to do nothing but sleep until the moment that he disappeared leaving an empty frame behind him. Then, with the War being over and a new headmaster appointed, they had expected things to settle down to a dull round of administration only occasionally punctuated by some student prank.

They had seriously underestimated the entertainment value of a stroppy Headmaster.

The first time he had returned from a Governor's meeting and treated them all to a thirty-minute diatribe on their abilities, personalities and appearance, the Portraits had gathered round to admire his rhetorical technique.

"Good breath control," Phineas had said laconically, once the Headmaster had departed in search of a drink, and a pupil to terrorise, much as a cat searches out a mouse as a cure against ennui.

One Portrait, Playle, who had developed an interest in psychology, opined that Snape was suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Boleat, as one of the older Portraits had countered with the suggestion that he was suffering from an excess of choler, and should be bled and a spirited discussion had broken out about the respective merits of a 'pseudo-science based on half-truths and superstition' which had culminated in the allegation that Playle clearly needed something to balance out all that Black Bile and some very detailed suggestions as to how he could do it. They were not well received, and both Portraits retired to the opposite corners of the room to sulk, complain to their respective supporters, and be assured that it 'just wasn't worth it'.

Phineas, who had a better grasp of human nature, pointed out that Snape had always been stroppy, and would continue to be stroppy until the day he died. Stroppiness was the rubber band that propelled him through life. Phineas expected that Snape's dying words would be detailed instructions as to where the nurse could shove her wand, probably coupled with throwing the bedpan at her.

The other Portraits had watched the initial display of temper with amusement and were encouraged by the consequent fallout: things were certainly not going to be dull.

That had proved to be something of an understatement. Snape was more volatile than Hagett's Horrible Hexploding Potion, which had to be kept under a time delaying charm due to its propensity to explode at the drop of a hat. Furious debate was raging amongst the portraits as to what the metaphorical equivalent of that would be for Headmasters, and had tentatively concluded that it was imperative that he never be allowed a girlfriend in case regular rogering improved his mood.

So far, no piece of fluff had lasted the course. The only one who had looked likely to cling to the Headmaster like a Black Widow Spider to her mate, had eventually been discouraged by means of a carefully staged, and accidentally overheard conversation between two of the least discreet portraits on the subject of his recent trip to the Infirmary. It was hardly their fault that she had misconstrued things entirely, now was it?

Since then, Snape had been delightfully erratic, and had actually thrown an inkwell at a member of the Ministry stupid enough to make some queries over the accounts. Whatever had triggered the present fulminations – and it was hard to keep track of all his peeves – it looked like someone was in for a hard time.

"You will never guess what that idiot Weasley has arranged now?" Snape said through gritted teeth to the world at large.

"Some sort of marriage law, forcing Purebloods to marry Muggleborns," Phineas asked solicitously.

Snape bared his teeth in reply, and several of the shyer visiting portraits bethought themselves of other places to be. "I don't know where you get these fanciful ideas from; that's just ridiculous." He slumped into an armchair by the fire, and poured himself a very stiff drink, which he sipped at morosely.

"Well?" snapped Phineas. "What's got your robes in a twist this time?"

Severus smirked, satisfied that his bait had been taken; then his face darkened as he remembered his original complaint. "It isn't enough that the damned fool has commissioned this portrait, oh no. Now there is to be a Grand Opening of the blasted thing, with the surviving members of the Order present, as well as a specially invited audience of dignitaries."

"But that's wonderful," said Phineas. "A big presentation like that is almost as flattering as an Order of Merlin."

Snape still looked sour. "Hardly. What it means is that Harry Potter –" he almost spat the name – "will be attracting all the attention, yet again. As if he was the only one involved in bringing down Vol-voldemort." Even several years later, he couldn't bring himself to say the name easily. "And then there will be Black, leering at me from the portrait; you can't tell me that he's not going to be a bloody nuisance."

Phineas, though an accomplished liar, wasn't prepared to make the effort on that point. It was self-evident that Black was going to be a bloody nuisance. There were some people that death had a sobering effect on; Black was not going to be one of them. "I do think that you are being unnecessarily pessimistic about this Grand Opening," Phineas said, turning the possibilities over in his mind. "If you think about it, it's a perfect opportunity."

"How so?"

"Potter, for instance, will not be enjoying the prospect of returning to school under the critical gaze of the one man he has never managed to impress, and who he spent an entire year trying to kill without success. That has to be trifle embarrassing to say the least. I'm sure you can find a way to subtly remind him that you are unimpressed with his Hero status. After all, you're just as much of a Hero now, and entitled to be treated with respect."

"I was entitled to be treated with respect when I was a Potions Master," Snape grumbled, but Phineas could see the idea taking root. The next few days would be taken up with imagining various scenarios and polishing witty come-backs to make sure that he had the last word. He swirled the alcohol round in his glass as he mused, which Phineas thought was a dreadful waste of a drink. Once you were dead you tended to bitterly resent the way the living wasted their opportunities – eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow you may be a portrait, and it's a long time in between whiskies then.

"And of course we must remember that no matter how annoying Sirius is, he is dead," Severus added.

Phineas thought it was tactless of Snape to remind him that the house of Black was now extinct, but whatever protests he was going to make died on his lips when he saw the singular look of malevolence on Snape's face. Snape could hold a grudge for years, and Phineas had seen how enthusiastic he was in pursuing them, which could mean a very short life as a portrait for young Sirius if he wasn't careful. "You needn't worry about Black," he said. "I'll make sure he behaves."

"See that he does."

Phineas closed his eyes, and hoped that Black could be made to see sense, just this once. A certain amount of tension in the castle was amusing, but he didn't want to find out what Snape was capable if pushed. It was bound to be unpleasant, inventive and permanent.

"It will be nice to see Minerva again," Phineas said, trying to turn the discussion to happier subjects.

Snape's face softened. He'd always been fond of Minerva, despite their vicious House rivalry, and missed her company bitterly. "It will. It's about the only thing that makes it worthwhile."

"It's more important that Dumbledore finally takes his rightful place on the walls in this school," said Boleat, resolutely living up to his reputation as a portrait with a determination to put his foot in his mouth on every occasion. The other portraits, whilst admitting he was an idiot, allowed him to hang around because his propensity to irritate any given Headmaster outweighed his tendency to irritate them.

Snape didn't betray his opinion on that comment by the slightest flicker, but that, to a careful observer, was enough of a hint as to just how much he was looking forward to seeing Albus again.

"I should think," Phineas said, "that Dumbledore will want to keep more of an eye on young Weasley. It's a shame that we won't be able to see as much of him as we would wish, but we have to make the sacrifice for the greater good."

Boleat was stupid enough to take that at face value.

The other portraits exchanged sly glances. Phineas had no reason to welcome Albus into the office. It would lead to a diminution in his influence on the erratic Snape for one thing, and, for another, it was well known that Phineas still hadn't forgiven Albus for getting Sirius killed.

Snape wasn't the only one who was capable of holding grudges.

Snape grunted, and then downed his drink in one. "Yes, indeed. Percy does seem to be in need of guidance. I think it's vital that someone should spend a couple of hours with Albus explaining our Blessed Minister's new policies to him in detail."

"I don't see how Albus can keep an eye on the Minister," Boleat replied. "As far as I know, there's no route into the Minister's office for any portrait."

Severus looked crestfallen, until a truly malevolent smile crossed his face. "I'm sure that our Minister is too shy to ask for the help he so obviously needs, so some way will have to be found to allow that to happen. Any suggestions?"

The portraits looked shifty. None of them were keen on admitting ignorance on any subject.

"Well, it's a bit like the Floo," offered one bewigged and flounced Headmaster. "It isn't necessary to know how it works to be able to use it. We know the basics – either there is a network, like there is here in Hogwarts, so we can all travel between portraits, or, if they aren't connected like that, you have to have been painted in two pictures.

"You know how paranoid Scrimgeour got towards the end. He decided to isolate the Ministr by cutting off the network. I gather that people are stranded in whatever portrait they were in at the time, and they can't move. He also took down all the possible linking portraits." The portrait swallowed, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "Rumour has it that he even burned some of them."

There were various cries of 'shame!' and muttered imprecations from the watchers. They resented not be being able to visit friends and family in the Ministry, and there were all sorts of rumours about the state of the portraits there. Several years of being trapped in the one place would do nothing for your sanity, especially if you ended up in the same room as someone who nibbled their fingernails, or who had had a nasty cough on the day they were painted.

That was the sort of thing that could reduce a sensible portrait to a gibbering wreck in weeks, let alone years.

Percy Weasley had so far refused to reinstate the network, citing the need for security, and in the aftermath of the war security was paramount. Besides, it wasn't as if paintings could vote.

"So none of you have any bright ideas as to how we could effect Dumbledore's entry into the Minister's office?" Severus asked.

"I have heard that Rylstone is always happy to discuss his work in detail with anyone who shows the faintest sign of interest," Phineas said, apparently at random.

"How very generous of him," Severus replied, before summoning the decanter and pouring another drink. "I think it's about time I took more of an interest in the Arts."

"No knowledge is ever wasted," Phineas replied sententiously.

The Portraits grinned and elbowed each other as they gathered closer to watch two master plotters at work. This was going to be fun.

Hermione Granger wasn't looking forward to the dedication ceremony.

Percy was beginning to annoy her. He seemed to think that, merely because he was the Minister, that he was allowed to go round doing things and spending money. He kept talking about Manifesto commitments, and no one had the nerve to tell him that the electorate didn't really expect him to keep his promises, and probably hoped that he wouldn't keep his promises.

Election pamphlets were very useful, once shredded, in providing bedding for familiars but that was about it.

What they were after was a Minister who did pointless and petty things, and largely left them to get on with their lives, whilst making sure that the money for Hogwarts and St Mungo's turned up every quarter. Since those funds came in from the Muggle government, in return for not interfering with Muggle life and making sure Muggleborns were properly trained, there really wasn't a lot for a Minister to do.

Percy was a Minister who wanted things to do. He needed things to do, and if there weren't things for him to do, he would create things for him to do.

He was everywhere: poking his nose into every corner of the Ministry, seeking out waste and determined to make the place more efficient. He'd started reading Muggle books on management – Hermione had to authorise the invoices from Blackwell's – and tried to put the ideas into practice despite the protests of his staff.

Percy had wanted Time and Motion studies of every department, to find out who was doing what, and how often, and if there was a better way. There almost certainly was a better way: in most departments you'd have to wait a very long time for there to be signs of motion at all. Hermione had been inundated with complaints from Heads of Departments, who were all worried about their budgets being cut back if the survey took place.

She'd managed to divert him for a couple of months by suggesting that what the Ministry really needed was a Mission Statement. What were the aims of a Modern Ministry under a Modern Minister? Answers on a postcard please, to be placed in the containers provided.

Some of them were very inventive, especially the ones with diagrams. They brought a smile to the otherwise tired and emotional Team Leaders, but they weren't really what Percy was looking for.

So, with much hilarity, they'd sat down and cobbled together some more sensible answers. Well, sensible in the sense that they weren't quite so obviously rude as the real suggestions, but still fairly risible.

"We're here to help" had been quickly discarded as likely to give rise to unrealistic expectations. This wouldn't be a problem in the Muggle world, where adopting a bovine expression and chewing gum would be enough to get out of doing any real work, but Wizards (and Witches) were made of sterner stuff. Hexes would fly, and there was no guarantee that the Ministry worker would come out ahead.

"We're not here to help" was only narrowly defeated. It was truthful, granted, but a slight majority of staff thought it was better – and more amusing – to allow the supplicant to find this out gradually. The addition of "so Bugger Off" wasn't really a serious suggestion, and was withdrawn before the vote was taken.

In the end, they had thought of three or four suggestions, only one of which was a serious contender, and sent them off to the Minister sure in the knowledge that he would pick the right one.

Percy Weasley had no discernible sense of humour, which is why there was now emblazoned in fiery letters across the front of the Ministry "Opening the Door to You".

Some wag had summed up the view of the workers and added a charm that said, "Apart from when we're closed." So far Percy hadn't noticed it.

It usually took a couple of months before the Ministry decided what it thought about its new Minister. Now the verdict was back: Percy was a plonker.

Percy was a plonker on a mission, and Hermione was the poor sod who had been nominated to keep him under some sort of control. Hermione hated to admit that she hadn't quite mastered the art of Percy-management, because she was used to dealing with clever but slippery customers, rather than helpless and hopeless ones.

It was proving almost impossible to predict what his reaction would be to any given issue, which meant that the Grand Unveiling of the Rylestone' portrait was like striking in a match in a darkened room to try and find where the smell of gas was coming from: something best observed from a distance.

Besides, she wasn't very happy with the way her picture had turned out. Her hair, whilst not quite falling in the waterfall of luxuriant curls promised on the conditioner bottle, wasn't quite the bushy mass it once was, so she didn't think it fair that she should be shown as the old her rather than the new and slightly improved her.

Rylestone had proved obdurate. Apparently it was important to catch the essence of the sitter, and her essence had bushy hair, which was clearly rubbish. As far as she was concerned her essence had lovely smooth hair, and was a bit taller and definitely looked a little more cheerful.

She was, apparently, being all pensive and thoughtful about the future, but she thought she looked like she had indigestion.

She'd been one of the first of the Order members to be painted, so she hadn't seen the finished Portrait. The unveiling was to be as much of a surprise to her as to the others. Hermione had decided a long time ago that she didn't like surprises: they usually consisted of dark-robed men jumping out at you from behind, or scaly monsters trying to petrify you, or finding that your birthday present was another poxy book token.

When she'd mentioned this to Harry and Ron one evening over a quiet drink at the Leaky Cauldron, Harry had said, "Come off it, Hermione, it's all going to be very predictable. The Press will be underfoot asking all sorts of stupid questions. Percy is going to be a plonker. No one is going to like their Portrait, Dumbledore will be twinkling more than the Milky Way, and Snape and Sirius will be at wands drawn before the end of the ceremony. In fact, I think we ought to have a little bet on which of them draws first."

"I think you underestimate the ability of the twins to cause trouble," Hermione replied.

"That's true." Harry smiled. "I bet Percy won't like it."

"He won't," she agreed, taking another sip of her drink. "He does take himself very seriously, and the twins just can't help themselves. And when you put real twins and portrait twins in the same room, there's bound to be trouble. I wonder if I ought to point this out to Percy, so he can step up security."

"You're joking!" Ron said, spluttering beer down his front.

"Of course I am." Hermione grinned at him. "Idiot."

He sank back into his chair. "I never know with you. You're always telling us to be sensible and stuff. I can never tell whether you're going to be Head Girl or the Girl-who-slapped-Malfoy."

"Depends on whether Malfoy's actually there," she said. "If he is, then it's the Girl-who-slapped-Malfoy. Has to be really. He's just made for slapping."

Harry nodded seriously. "Makes sense."

"He's been invited, you know, and accepted."

Harry waved at the barman to indicate they wanted another round. "No!"

"Yes. It's part of this healing old wounds nonsense – bringing the Wizarding World together."

"I'm definitely having a fiver on you slapping him before the end of the day. You're bound to," Ron said, eyeing his empty glass mournfully.

"I should think so. And I'm having a fiver on Sirius being the first to draw," Hermione replied.

"You mean you think that Sirius is the sort to draw his wand on an unarmed Wizard?" Harry said, frowning.

"I mean that Snape is more irritating that Sirius." Even now it wasn't wise to say anything against Sirius, though she thought that he and Snape were just as bad as each other when it came down to it.

The drinks arrived, delivered by a flighty waitress who was obviously in awe of Harry, and who had to be repelled by means of a glare from Hermione.

"I give you a toast," Harry said, raising his pint glass. "To tomorrow. It's going to be just like old times."

Hermione and Ron clinked their glasses against his. "That, Harry Potter, is very much what I'm afraid of," she said.

They dissolved into fits of laughter, and it was just like being seventeen again – laughing cheerfully in the face of impending doom and at the mercy of implacable forces.

At least this time there would be no hanging round in chilly graveyards dodging hexes.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter two

Unlike Percy, the weather had a sense of humour and provided the perfect backdrop to the day. It started off bright and sunny, mocking Severus in its exuberance, but then, as the evil hour came closer, it closed in and turned gloomy.

By 3pm – Snape had objected that it would interrupt lessons; Percy had responded that this was the point – it was bucketing down, so that Snape was obliged to listen to each new arrival inform him that it was raining (as if he didn't know), and that they were wet (which was self-evident, and an almost inexorable consequence of rain when people were too stupid to remember the right spells), and that it was a shame that the weather was so bad on such an important day.

By the time Hermione, Ron and Harry presented themselves at the door to Hogwarts, Snape was in a foul mood. "I know it's raining," he snapped at someone ahead of them in the line, as they waited to be greeted in their turn. "Yes, it is annoying. Yes, it is wet."

"Same old Snape, then," Harry muttered, only to be firmly shushed by Hermione.

A teacher plucked the offending guest away from the Headmaster, one that Hermione didn't recognise, and was directed towards a hot toddy and some soothing words. They moved forward to face Snape. It wasn't the same old Snape, not as far as Hermione was concerned. He seemed a bit shorter for one thing, now that she was no longer sat in class, and there were a few streaks of white in his hair. Perhaps he was encouraging the grey so that he would look venerable, or perhaps it was the added stress of overseeing Hogwarts' reconstruction that had added the streaks.

"Good afternoon, Headmaster," Hermione said pleasantly, shaking his hand firmly.

"Aren't you going to tell me that it's raining?"

"Indeed not, Headmaster. I think that's obvious."

He humphed. "You're the only one that thinks so, then. I'm pleased to see you seem to have marginally more sense than the others; you have at least remembered to cast some drying spells."

"I do tend to do that when it's raining," she said gravely. "But then I've always been a know-it-all."

Only a dark gleam in his eye betrayed his amusement, though it stopped well short of Dumbledorean twinkling. It disappeared completely as he turned to the boys. "Potter," he said shortly. "Weasley."

"Snape," Harry said. Ron just nodded.

If they were dogs, their hackles would be raised and there would walking round each other all stiff-legged and growling, thought Hermione. It's just as well they weren't dogs, because the thought of them having to sniff each other's bottoms was not a pleasant one.

The tableau was disturbed by the arrival of the Minister, who came bustling up full of his own importance, leaving a trail of flunkies labouring in his wake. "So we're all here then?" he said. "Good. Good. Have you seen the portrait?" Percy asked. "Rylestone was really rather off-hand when I asked to see it."

"No," Snape said shortly. "I wasn't really interested."

Snape and Harry had one thing in common then – they were united in their dislike of Percy – and neither of them was prepared to take up the burden of the conversation. Not that their opinion was unusual: as far as Hermione could tell, the only people who liked Percy were his parents, and that only intermittently. More people liked Lucius Malfoy than Percy, which was a dreadful thing to say.

"He is a genius, Minister," Hermione replied, soothing his ruffled feathers. "I think we have to forgive him his little eccentricities. Rumour has it that he threw a pot of paint over your predecessor."

"Good heavens." Percy's smile was quickly suppressed as he remembered how solemn the occasion was, and he rearranged his face into a more appropriate expression. That little glimpse of personality, reminded her of Ron. Someone needed to take Percy in hand, find him a girlfriend to get him pointed in the right direction, and a couple of kiddies on the way so that he'd be too tired to keep interfering at the Ministry.

Not that she was volunteering for that role.

Surely someone would be eager enough to be the Minister's wife that they were prepared to overlook that they'd have to marry Percy Weasley too, and maybe they could bring out the Weasley sense of humour before he turned into a dried old stick.

One of the older students came hurrying along the corridor – at least Hermione hoped it was one of the older students and that she wasn't reaching the stage when Aurors and teachers were looking young, because that would mean she was getting old – and muttered something into Snape's ear.

"Apparently they are ready for us Minister," Snape said. "If you would be so good…" He gestured for the Minister to precede him into the Hall.

There was a moment of calculation for the boys. Percy was wondering whether it would look better to go into the Hall with Harry, the boy-who-lived-three-times, Ron and accentuate the Weasleys' claim to greatness, Hermione who controlled the purse strings, or the Headmaster who was technically his host.

Ron took the decision out of his hands by muttering something under his breath about looking after Molly, and disappearing into the crowd. Harry was hoping to go in with Hermione, but knew that he was expected to go in with either Snape or Percy.

He hated Snape with a deep and burning hate, which had settled down to a dull ache over the years since polishing off Voldemort. It was one thing to know that Dumbledore's death had all been part of a deep plot, and to even admire the courage of the man for doing what he had done. It was quite another to come to terms with the bullying he had endured at school. There'd been no deep reason for that, other than Snape hating Harry and Harry hating Snape. It was a comfortable hate that had been part of him for so long that it was like a part of him; he could no more give it up than give up an arm.

His dislike of Percy was new-found and growing. It was a nice question which one he disliked the least.

Snape was wondering whether it was too late to manufacture some sort of emergency that needed his attention, or drop the anti-Apparition wards and just vanish, claiming he'd been abducted by Neo-Death Eaters determined to disrupt the ceremony.

Hermione had no such moment of indecision. Snape was obviously the best choice to sit next to, as he wasn't likely to irritate her with banal chit chat, and Harry should therefore be thrown to the lions. That's what friends were for, after all. She signalled her intentions by moving a little nearer to the Headmaster, and giving Harry a little shove in the direction of Percy.

Harry glared at her, but gave in with relatively good grace. He wasn't that keen on spending time with Snape, and dealing with Percy merely required him to nod every once in a while and make mmm mmm noises. Bitter experience had taught him that it was unwise to say yes to anything unless you had been listening carefully and had a lawyer to go over the fine print of your promise – a mere mmmm was sufficiently non-committal to pass as interest but not leave you facing some hideous task, like killing a new Dark Lord, or, worse, agreeing to attend some Ball with somebody's daughter.

Snape was equally grateful to be spared the company of Potter, and caused him to smile at Hermione – something he'd never done before – an action which, as it turned out, fell very clearly into the category of pebble-causing-avalanche. It wasn't that she thought that he was handsome when he smiled; he was not. It didn't even make him look younger. But it did make Hermione think that the expression looked so awkward and unfamiliar on his face that someone really ought to make the effort to make him smile more frequently.

She hadn't gone so far as to identify herself as the person to make Snape smile, or even come up with some suggestions as to how this should be effected, but a tentative conclusion had been made: Snape should smile more.

The Great Hall was filled with children, and specially invited guests that Percy most wanted to impress. Hermione could see the white-blond hair of the Malfoys seated together in the second row –it would have been in very poor taste to be in the front row considering the day's purpose, but they were making a determined push for any advantages that might be going as a result of this reconciliation.

Hermione nodded politely to Lucius and Narcissa, and smiled a little more warmly at Draco. He may be an irritating little ferret, but there came a point when you realised that you had more in common with people who had been involved in the war – even if they had been on the wrong side – than normal people. Normal people didn't understand why you didn't want to sit with your back to the door, or why loud noises made you jump, or the vital importance of not creeping up on people unless you wanted to be hexed.

Draco, not yet aged into impassivity like his father, pulled an expression that made him look like he was sixteen and sitting in Binn's class again.

On the dais, where the High Table was usually placed, were two rows of chairs for the Very Important Guests, and in the very centre a large lectern which purported to be in the shape of a phoenix but which bore a strong resemblance to a half-plucked chicken being readied for the pot.

Even when borrowing others glory, Percy made a figure of fun.

Harry sat on one side of the Minister, and Snape and Hermione to the other side. It was always sensible to have as many people as possible between the two of them to act as a buffer.

Ron's escape had only been temporary, and he had been herded into a seat next to Harry by his proud mother. She was watching him fondly from the audience, as she dabbed at her eyes with a large handkerchief. His brothers, sitting either side of her, were pulling faces at Ron and making him squirm with embarrassment until Molly spotted what they were up to and clipped them round the ear.

Percy winced, and Hermione felt mildly sorry for him. Compared to Fudge or Scrimgeour he was actually a decent Minister who was trying to make the world a better place even if the way he went about it was muttonheaded. So she fixed the younger Weasleys with a glare that spoke volumes about their next tax return being enquired into with a fine tooth comb, and they subsided into a mock reverent attitude that wouldn't fool anyone that knew them for more than five minutes but would have to do.

Percy took up his position behind the lectern and coughed meaningfully.

The hubbub in the room continued as loudly as before.

Percy coughed again, Snape glared, and gradually a little hush descended on the chattering crowd.

"My fellow wizards and witches, we are gathered here today to commemorate the actions of a brave few who stood against Lord Voldemort at a dark time in our history," Percy said, his voice wavering a little.

"We have all heard of the way in which Professor Snape made a terrible sacrifice at Dumbledore's behest, giving him the chance to spy more effectively…"

Harry shifted awkwardly on his seat, whilst Snape glared into the middle distance. Snape hadn't been very understanding about Harry's determination to kill him and had never accepted Harry's apologies for very nearly hexing off his limbs. It was the sort of faux pas that was hard to live down.

"… and we all know of the brave actions of members of my family – Mum, Dad, Fred and George, Charlie, Bill, Ronald, and even little Ginny - …"

Ginny and Ron scowled at him, but Percy continued unperturbed.

"… Harry Potter and all the other members of the Order, some of whom have specifically asked for their names to be kept out of things, but who we honour nonetheless. However, this is not merely the time for bringing up memories of the past, no matter how precious they might be to us…"

Snape snorted.

"Instead, it is a time when we should all join together in putting the past behind us, when we should join hands with our neighbours and make sure that nothing like this can ever happen again."

There was a scattering of applause, which grew in volume followed the lead of Hermione, Harry and Ron who were clapping the sentiment wholeheartedly. Once it was clear that they were backing the Minister, their fellow wizards and witches followed suit.

"And now I'm sure that our esteemed Headmaster would like to say a few words," Percy said, one the applause had died down.

"Minister." Snape acknowledged Percy with a nod. "Those who were there need no reminder of their actions, and should not look to be remembered for doing no more than was required. Nor should you seek to make any of us into heroes. We were not. Albus Dumbledore was a great man, no doubt, but he was not infallible. Harry Potter brought down Lord Voldemort, but he did not do so alone. If Miss Granger and Mr Weasley had known at eleven where their choices were taking them, perhaps they would have turned aside."

The crowd were silent. It wasn't the kind of silence that usually prevailed when someone made a speech, occasionally punctuated with coughs, and sniffles and the odd murmur; it was absolute. The sort of silence that followed the announcement of a death in the family, or that your house had burned down.

This was not what they had come for.

"Fate and prophecy forced us into these events; who is to say that others might not have achieved the same things? Even done them better? The Order was composed of fools, charlatans, liars and murderers. They picked their noses and scratched their arses the same as the rest of us – apart from Minerva McGonagall, who I'm sure always used a handkerchief, even when she was alone in her room. She deserved a medal for her devotion to this school, for all the students she taught, and for eighty years' service to Gryffindor House, because that was true heroism – doing the job you're paid for, to the best of your ability, without thanks, and making the world a better place little by little."

He stopped. People weren't quite sure whether that was the end of the speech, or he was winding his way up to say something else, and they didn't offer even a smattering of polite applause until Harry stood and began applauding, followed shortly thereafter by Hermione and Ron.

Snape sat down, looking disgruntled, though that was pretty close to his usual expression.

"Er, thank you, Headmaster," Percy said, rising to his feet once the smattering of applause died down. "Sentiments I'm sure we all agree with." He paused, looked at the notes for the rest of his speech, and muttered something that sounded very much like, "Sod it."

Percy looked round the room, his audience waiting with indifference and boredom for him to complete his speech. "Sentiments which I wholeheartedly endorse," he said again, with more vigour. "It's easy for us to forget that these were real people, with flaws, good bits and bad bits, and to think that being heroic is something that's done by good people for good reasons, when it's usually done by people who don't have a chance to run away. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Order of the Phoenix."

The applause was louder this time, and Snape's expression lightened a little.

The Minister gestured for the Headmaster to precede him down the aisle separating the serried ranks of chairs, and Harry and Hermione followed, forming a small procession.

"You know, I think he's mellowed," Harry whispered to Hermione. "He's nowhere near as nasty as I remember."

"My hearing is still as acute as ever," Severus said, turning to them under the cover of acknowledging someone in the crowd.

Harry grinned, unrepentant. "Good thing you can't take points off me anymore, then."

"Not from you, no," Snape replied, and his smile was rather more edged.

"Shush," Hermione said, and prodded Snape's arm. "Eyes front; let's have a bit of respect, and save the bickering for later."

Snape stiffened in outrage, then conceded the point by stalking forward in silence. Harry's grin widened, but whatever he was going to say by way of gloating was silenced by the hard glare that Hermione sent in his direction.

They were a sombre group that gathered round the portrait. Percy had insisted on a grand unveiling, so it was covered by a red velvet curtain that was to be opened by pulling on a gold tassel so large that it wouldn't have looked out of place in Malfoy Manor.

Percy looked over the group, making sure all the latecomers were in place. "I don't think that there is anything I can say that would add to the Headmaster's comments, so, without further ado, I give you..."

He paused dramatically, tugged on the rope pull, and drew back the curtain.

"...The Order of the Phoenix."

If Snape had been asked, he might have pointed out the dangers of putting a volatile group together – and it was only might, and only after holding forth for some time on the overall insanity of the project – but he hadn't been asked. Consequently, the charms to bring the portraits to life had been cast, as had the die, and the curtain parted to reveal a scene that the living members of the Order had to admit was accurate if not flattering.

Sirius and Severus were nose to nose arguing, on the verge of drawing their wands to settle the dispute, with Remus plucking at Sirius' arm trying to stop him, whilst the other portrait people stood round shouting at each other.

Silence fell as they realised that they were now on view.

Sirius and Severus gave each other one last hard glare, and then took up positions on either side of the painting with the other members of the Order lined up between them, determined to keep them separate and maintain the impression of a collection of quietly brave heroes.

The headmaster snorted. "Which is just what we'd expect from your sort, Black."

Sirius opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He coughed, then took another breath. "What have you done?"

"As if I was going to let you onto the walls of my school without taking the necessary precautions - you can't say a single word to my detriment, and if you try, you'll be silenced," Snape said, and his portrait counterpart smirked broadly. "I will not be disrespected in my own school."

"Hah!" Black shouted. "There's only one Headmaster here that I have any respect for, and that's Albus Dumbledore."

Severus' smile widened still further, a glint in his eye. "And yet," he said softly, "he isn't here, is he?"


End file.
